


give me hope in the darkness (that i will see the light)

by cinabrese



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, brief description of bodily burns, i swear it's happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:50:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4581360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinabrese/pseuds/cinabrese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He turns around from where he stands, and forgets to stop watering the plant in the process, but it’s okay; he thinks it a water-loving plant. (If not, then <i>oh well</i>). Warrod isn’t quite sure how to respond for a moment; he feels like he’s seen a ghost. Which, in all reality, is true. He’s seen quite a few ghosts. But this ghost in particular actually <i>feels </i> like a ghost. His heart stops, his blood runs cold, and he almost drops the watering can. (Which is probably for the best. The plant is beginning to look waterlogged).</p><p>“Mavis,” he breathes.</p><p>He drops the watering can.</p><p>(The plant sighs in relief).</p>
            </blockquote>





	give me hope in the darkness (that i will see the light)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from Mumford & Son's "Ghosts That We Knew"
> 
> All characters belong to Hiro Mashima

A soft _“Warrod”_ is all the warning he gets.

He turns around from where he stands, and forgets to stop watering the plant in the process, but it’s okay; he _thinks_ it a water-loving plant. (If not, then _oh well_ ). Warrod isn’t quite sure how to respond for a moment; he feels like he’s seen a ghost. Which, in all reality, is true. He’s seen quite a few ghosts. But this ghost in particular actually _feels_ like a ghost. His heart stops, his blood runs cold, and he almost drops the watering can. (Which is probably for the best. The plant is beginning to look waterlogged).

“Mavis,” he breathes.

He drops the watering can.

(The plant sighs in relief).

Mavis jumps at the sound of the watering can hitting the floor, but before she can do much else, Warrod is in front of her. He drops to his knees and instinctively goes to wrap his arms around her. He remembers that this isn’t really Mavis, it’s just an astral projection, or some other part of her magic, a beat too late. But, to his great surprise, Mavis leans into the hug and brings her own arms up around him.

Warrod laughs, because it’s so _unreal,_ it should be unreal, but Mavis is in front of him, she’s _here,_ and she’s solid.

“It’s been a while,” he manages to choke out.

Mavis nods into his shoulder, and Warrod has to fight back a sneeze as her hair tickles his nose. “Too long,” she murmurs, and her grip on him tightens.

They stay like that for a few more moments, two friends reunited after god knows how long. They _need_ a few moments to gather themselves and assure each other that, yes, they are here, this is real.

Then Warrod shifts and mutters into Mavis’s hair; “Not to ruin our touching reunion or anything, but I’m not as young as I used to be, and this magic is kind of touchy, and I think my knees just planted roots into the ground.”

Mavis reels back like she’s been slapped. “Warrod Sequen! Why didn’t you say something sooner? Oh, this is not how I wanted this to go. I can _not_ believe you! How do we fix it? And, and...and you’re not actually stuck, are you?” Her voice evens out, and she sets an exasperated glare on Warrod.

Warrod cackles and gracefully rises to his feet. “Not at all!” He ducks away from Mavis as she halfheartedly tries to punch his arm, a smile forming even as she rolls her eyes. “But I do own chairs, you know, and they’re slightly more comfortable for someone of my age.”

“You always were the best at ruining moments,” Mavis sighs. “Glad to know _that_ hasn’t changed.” She follows Warrod to a small table in the corner of the arboretum, where he gestures for Mavis to sit and grows another chair for himself in the time it takes her to settle down. “And you’re only a few years older than me, you know.”

“Yes,” Warrod says as he takes his seat across from her. “But you’re-” he waves a hand in Mavis’s direction and shrugs.

“Dead?” Mavis offers. “Living in suspended animation? An illusion of myself created by myself?”

“All of the above?” Warrod responds, tilting his head to the side. "Speaking of which," he leans forward, expression turning serious. "How are you here right now? And why can I _feel_ you?"

Mavis hums and kicks her feet in the space between her and the floor. She thinks about an answer, then says, "Well, you know that my magic is currently...otherwise occupied, right?" Warrod nods. He _should_ know. After all, he was there when Lumen Histoire was made. "I can use a small amount of it, like this, my illusion. But to actually perform _magic,_ honest, pure, _magic,_ I have to, what would a good word be?, _borrow_ power from outside sources." She pauses and studies Warrod to see if her explanation is a sound and easy one.

"Like the Fairy Sphere on Tenrou Island eight years ago," Warrod says.

"Like the Fairy Sphere on Tenrou Island eight years ago," Mavis agrees. "I was able to use the guild's love and camaraderie for each other as a power source, since those feelings are closely related to the source of all magic."

Warrod nods. "That makes sense. But...."

"Why am I solid?" Mavis asks with a grin. "I can't normally materialize like this. The guild's bonds aren't powerful enough for me to take a solid form when I'm with them."

Warrod snorts. "Are you trying to say that there's a lack of love and friendship in _that_ guild? _Our_ guild? _Fairy Tail?_ "

"Their bonds with _me_ aren't powerful enough," Mavis corrects herself. "They do love me, I suppose, but it's not _personal_ enough." She smiles sadly. "None of them ever knew me when I was alive. Even little Makkie was only a year old when everything happened. They know me, they love me, but not like they love the people they grew up with and made memories with."

"That makes sense, I guess." Warrod stands up and winces as his joints creak and groan like the aging trees around his house. He ambles over to a plant and coaxes a few leaves off of it to start brewing tea. "So you're saying that our bond is so strong that you can actually materialize around me?"

Mavis bobs her head. Warrod passes her on his way to the teapot. He pauses and wraps an arm around Mavis’s neck, earning a startled squeak. She whines and shrieks as Warrod rubs her head and ruffles her hair, but laughter is evident in her voice.

“I always knew you liked me the most!” Warrod crows.

“It’s more like the opposite,” Mavis laughs. “ _Your_ love for _me_ takes the form of my solidity!" Her words are almost drowned out by her laughter, and when Warrod releases her she pats her hair down with a huff.

They're both silent for the few minutes it takes Warrod to make two cups of tea, but it's a comfortable, companionable silence. When Warrod sits back down and hands Mavis her cup he takes note of the frown that pulled at the corners of her eyes and lips ever so slightly. He doesn't say anything, instead taking a deep sip of his tea. Mavis will say whatever she has to say whenever she feels ready to. It's always been like that.

Mavis hums as she drinks and taps her fingers against the table. Warrod smiles. She never could sit still, and apparently changing her state of living wouldn't change that. The way they sit, basking in each other's presence without words, feels so natural that the only thing that would really make it more realistic was if-

"Do you think," Mavis says suddenly, setting her cup down. Her hands are still wrapped around it, but her eyes are focused out the window, on something far, far away. "That if I had tried a little harder, done just one thing more, that Precht wouldn't have become so invested in black magic?" Her voice shakes a little, but other than that is clear and strong.

Warrod sets his cup down as well. "Mave," he begins seriously. "What could you have done differently?"

"I-"

"There's only one thing that might have, see, it's not even a guarantee, made Precht not fall into black magic. And we both know what that one thing is, and we both know that your decision would remain the same no matter the circumstance." Warrod's heart feels heavy, if only because he knows her pain. He left Precht behind, just as she did, and they both feel the weight of their choices on their shoulders.

"He was so angry with me the last time I saw him," she whispers. Now she stares into her cup, as if the answers to all of her questions lay inside it.

Warrod doesn't know if she visited him as an illusion after the creation of Lumen Histoire, or if she's thinking about that fateful day. Precht's vehemence against the spell would always be seared into his mind. Either way, he can only imagine how Mavis interpreted Precht's grief and rage. _He_ still has dreams about how withdrawn and violent Precht became.

"He doesn't hate _you,_ Mave," Warrod says quietly. "It's the situation."

"That I created," Mavis counters. "If I hadn't cast Lumen Histoire, what reason would Precht have to investigate black magic?"

The last thing Warrod wants is for Mavis to hold herself accountable for something she cannot control. "He would have found another reason, and you know that." His voice is sharp. "Black magic always finds a way to those who are drawn to it. His obsession didn't start with you, Mavis. It's not your fault."

"It still feels that way." She sighs, then sips her tea, and Warrod senses that they are done with that conversation for the time being.

"It's been a while since you last came around," Warrod states, leaning back into his chair.

Mavis shrugs. "Lumen Histoire takes up the vast majority of my magic. It's hard to project for long periods of time, if at all." She smiles and snickers. "Yet somehow I managed to keep my presence stable for the entirety of the Grand Magic Games."

Warrod grins back. "Those kids really make you feel like you can do anything, huh?"

"Tell me about it!" Mavis laughs. "And they cause so much _destruction!_ It almost makes me glad I only had to deal with you three. I'm surprised poor Makkie hasn't keeled over from heart attacks yet. You should see _their_ damage bills."

Warrod slams his hand on the table and leans forward indignantly. "Us three? If memory serves, _you_ were always the one with the highest bill to pay!"

"Oh, please," Mavis sniffs. "There's no way I could cause half as much damage as the three of you." Warrod stares at her and she cracks, a sheepish smile on her lips. "Okay, okay, maybe I was pretty bad. But nothing compared to these kids!"

They both laugh, and fall into silence once more. Outside, a bird caws and shadows flit across the window, the light streaming in temporarily interrupted.

Mavis sips her tea again and looks out the window, watching a bird land on a branch and feed its young. Warrod watches her over the top of his own cup. He starts humming a song Yuriy used to sing often. Warrod only hummed it, never sang, because no one but Yuriy could get the pronunciation of the Sevenish words right. Warrod wishes not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, that Yuriy had lived to see his son grow up. If Yuriy had lived, maybe he could have taught Makarov to sing the song in his native tongue.

Mavis closes her eyes as Warrod hums and sighs contently. She rest her chin in her hand and says, “Everything is about to change again, isn’t it?”

Warrod stops humming. “Yes.”

“There’s no avoiding it.” It’s not a question.

“Yes,” Warrod answers.

“What if,” Mavis says, drawing in a shaky breath. “What if when the time comes to use Lumen Histoire, it _works?_ ”

Warrod waits for the explanation.

“I’m not _dead,_ Warrod. But I’m not _alive_. Can you die if you’re not alive? What if, because of casting Lumen Histoire, something changed about me? All my life, all I’ve heard is that when you die you get to go to the afterlife, wherever or whatever that is. And that in this place you get to see everyone else, everyone who’s already died. But what if I can’t _die,_ Warrod? What if I get stuck somewhere? What if I just vanish into nothing?” She picks up her cup again just to hold something, but her hands shake and she sets it down before she spills what’s left of her tea.

 _Ah,_ Warrod thinks, _there it is_. In hindsight, he should have seen this coming. Mavis’s greatest fear, being alone, rearing its ugly head. He didn’t blame her for it. He _couldn’t_ blame her for it. Not when she’d lost her parents, lost everyone on Tenrou Island, and then realized that Zeira, her closest friend, was an illusion of her own creation.

She spent a hundred years by herself in Lumen Histoire, her greatest fear personified, all because of a choice she herself made. And now, she was faced with the very real idea that, after all of her sacrifice, she may not be rewarded. She may face her own personal hell for all of eternity.

“If that happens,” Warrod begins, his old voice gravelly and scratchy; just another reminder of how Mavis is left behind while everyone else moves forward, “I’ll find a way to bring you back. I’ll travel to the ends of the world to find a way to fix everything.”

Mavis’s nose is red and her eyes are a bit puffy, even though she hasn’t cried. She nods, then nods again and takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” she murmurs, so quiet that Warrod isn’t sure she’s aware she spoke aloud. “Yeah.” She goes to wrap her hands around her cup again, and Warrod feels his stomach plummet as they pass through it as if it’s nothing.

“What does that mean?” he asks hoarsely.

“It means,” Mavis says, staring at the cup with a forlorn expression, “that I’m running out of borrowed magic.”

“How is that possible?” Warrod asks. He doesn’t want her to leave yet; for her sake and his. “I thought you said you used the bond between us to come here.” He doesn’t know why she’s fading, but he wants her to know that his love for her is boundless, that it’s not causing the disruption, that’s _it’s not fading,_ and that it never will. He’ll never stop loving her.

“I used our bond to make me stronger,” Mavis whispers. If Warrod squints, he can see the outline of plants through her. “But I’ve been using too much magic recently, and I don’t have as much stored up as I used to. I’ll have to go soon.”

“Mavis,” Warrod says abruptly, because he can see that she’s fading faster than she thinks she is. “I want you to know, I _need_ you to know, that we’ll get through this together. You and me. When the time comes, I’ll be right there next to you.”

Mavis smiles right before she fades completely.

“I know.”

* * *

It takes Warrod about three seconds to realize that the group of wounded mages are about to be the next target, five seconds to weave the trees around them into a shielding barrier, and two seconds to get hit by the blast of black magic energy.

Faintly, he hears someone screaming, and then a blast of white-gold light shatters through the battlefield. As his hearing starts to come back to him, he can make out someone shouting “Wendy, Wendy!” An acrid smell reaches his nose and it takes him a moment to realize he’s smelling himself; a mix of burning wood and human flesh. He can’t feel his legs, and when he slides his gaze to the left all he sees is an ashy black mess that should have been his hand. His staff is a few feet away, all singed wood and cinders.

“Warrod! Warrod, listen, you’ll be fine, okay? Wendy’s on her way.” That’s Levy. Warrod likes Levy; she reminds him of Mavis, with her fondness for books and knowledge, quiet but sharp wit, and boundless love.

He doesn’t point out that if everything wa really going to be okay, he would be able to heal himself. He knows that her words are an empty comfort, and he knows that Levy, someone with such an affinity for words, knew it too.

“Where is she?” Warrod asks, voice faint.

Levy’s smart, and it’s obvious who Warrod would be talking about at a time like this. She glances behind her and Warrod notices that her hair is singed at the ends and a nasty bruise is beginning to blossom on her shoulder. “She just released the spell about a minute ago,” Levy says quietly.

Warrod closes his eyes and swallows hard. “You can’t see her, can you?”

“No,” Levy replies, “I can see her.” She shifts so that even if Warrod _could_ move he wouldn’t be able to see the fight that was happening. She’s not sure that someone in Warrod’s position should see the flaming, furious torch one of their closest friends had become. Mavis was stalking through their enemies, flinging golden fire left and right, bellowing for Zeref and whoever else was fighting against Fairy Tail and its allies.

Warrod opens his eyes, and really has to fight the heaviness threatening to overcome him. “Listen, Levy.” A part, the part that is still as young as he was the day they stumbled upon Tenrou Island, thinks that this is the perfect time for an ill-placed joke. The rest of him quickly shuts that part up. “Once she runs out of magic,” he pauses and draws in a gasping breath. “You have to make sure she’s gone.”

Levy is shocked. “What?” she asks, bewilderment clear on her face.

“Make sure she’s _gone,_ ” Warrod presses. “Make sure she’s not here anymore. She has to get to the other side. She- she can’t be alone.”

Levy nods, understanding without really understanding, and files away the conversation to pour over later. “But how will we know?”

Warrod closes his eyes again, and feels all his muscles relax. He lets out a breath, and a smile that’s hardly there graces his lips.

“You’ll know,” he sighs, and then is still.

On the battlefield, the light flares and then dims before snuffing out completely.

* * *

There’s a breeze, then a rustle, and then Warrod opens his eyes. The first thing he notices is that everything feels lighter. He doesn’t feel as heavy and weighed down as he did in the moments and years before his death. The next things he notices is that he’s laying down in a field of golden grass, looking up at a sky bluer than the waters around Tenrou.

Warrod sits up and winces. The sun is bright, almost blinding, and he’s not sure where he had been prior to waking up, but it had definitely been darker than where he was now. As he rubs his eyes and blinks, the third thing he notices is that his skin is a familiar shade of brown and is pleasantly unmarred by bark or any other tree mark. He laughs, a deep and hearty bellow, and runs his hands through his hair, grinning when he feels actual hair instead of tiny, miniscule leaves.

The fourth thing Warrod notices, or rather, _hears,_ is someone shouting his name.

He jerks his head up, and grins so widely it almost hurts. Then he’s on his feet and is running towards Yuriy, not bothering to worry about the stinging behind his eyes. They meet in a single instance of laughter and happy tears. Warrod plants his feet on the ground as Yuriy barrels into him, and wraps him in a bear hug before spinning him around and setting him down on the ground again.

“Yuriy!”

“Warrod!”

They have their hands clasped on each other’s shoulders and are grinning like madmen. But Warrod feels so _alive_ and _weightless_ that the only thing he cares about is that Yuriy Dreyar is here in front of him.

“I can’t believe it!” Yuriy says, shaking his head but not able to rid himself of his smile. “But that means….”

“I’m dead,” Warrod confirms. “It was a long time coming, anyway. Had to happen sometime.” He grins lopsidedly, and Yuriy laughs again and punches Warrod’s shoulder.

“It’s good to see you,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

Warrod thinks about that phrase, remembers saying to Mavis not that long ago, but pushes the thought from his mind. “A while! It’s been ninety-seven years, Dreyar!”

“Yeah,” Yuriy replies, “I guess is has.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else, but in the same moment Warrod notices the fifth thing. Behind Yuriy, arms crossed and a sour look on his face, is Precht Gaebolg. He’s not looking at the two of them, but off to the side, like he stepped in on a private reunion and is trying to reconcile for it. Warrod thinks that that might be exactly what happened, but in a perfect world, Precht would be in on the reunion as well.

But Warrod’s world isn’t perfect, and hasn’t been for years. Yuriy’s expression shifts to one of apprehension, and he goes to move in between Warrod and Precht. Warrod pays him no mind and shoulders past him, moving so he is in front of Precht.

“Precht,” Warrod says.

“Warrod,” Precht says.

Warrod punches him across the face.

A second later they are both howling in pain and Yuriy is beside them howling with laughter.

“You idiot!” he cackles at Warrod. “How many times do I have to tell you? Keep your thumb _outside_ of your fist!”

Warrod, next to where Precht rubs at his jaw, shakes his hand fervently, as if that would keep the pain at bay. “I’m not like you,” he hisses to Yuriy. “I never got into fights every other day. I was the one who stitched people back up.”

Yuriy slaps him on the back. “Well, you’ll never have to stitch anyone up here. You’ll both be fine in a few minutes.”

Warrod gapes at him. “Are you serious?”

“As death,” Yuriy replies solemnly.

Warrod stares at them both, eyes shining. “That is _so cool!_ ”

“Isn’t it?” Yuriy asks, and they’re both kids in a candy store.

Precht rolls his eyes, but his jaw is already starting to feel better, and he can’t help but grin along with them. It’s been a long time since they’ve all been together, and if he had to spend one more day alone with Yuriy he was going to punch him so hard that not even the afterlife would be able to heal it.

“That was for making all of us worry,” Warrod comments, looking at Precht, who shrugs.

“I deserved it. I’m not going to say I regret my choices but,” he sighs, and rubs the eye that had been shot by one of Blue Skull’s soldiers, “I definitely deserved it.”

The wind blows through the grasses, and they all take a moment to relax in the breeze. It reminds them of another day, long ago, when a breeze not unlike this one served as a precursor to the things that were to come. It brought with it a promise of greatness, of peace, and of contentness.

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and they all turn around.

Mavis stands a few yards away from the three of them, arms at her side, face devoid of any emotion. Her eyes shine with tears, and she brings her hands to her mouth. Her expression shifts into an impossible combination of disbelief and relief. And then she’s openly weeping, trying to wipe the tears away from her eyes but failing because they’re coming too fast. She ends up sobbing into her hands. Her shoulders shake with the force of her sobs and she attempts to take a step forward, stumbles, and remains where she is.

And then the three of them are running the short distance to her. They crowd around her and envelop her in a tight group hug.

She flings her arms around Yuriy’s neck. He wraps his arms around her and squeezes her so tight she has to pinch his neck to get him to loosen his grip. “You’re here,” she breathes, sniffling and smiling through her tears. Mavis wriggles away from Yuriy and hugs Precht next. “You’re all here,” she mumbles into his shoulder. She pulls away and grins at Warrod before she hugs him. “ _I’m_ here.” Her voice is so quiet that Warrod almost doesn’t catch it.

He gathers her into a bear hug and twirls them both around, hears Mavis’s laughter mixing with his and Precht’s and Yuriy’s, and knows that they’re young again, they’re untouchable, that nothing can hurt them.

Later, they’re walking through a sea of grass with no end in sight, laughing and smiling with each other like no time has passed. Mavis has climbed onto Yuriy’s back, ignoring his complaints until he finally gave in. Warrod is just beginning to sort through the endless piles of jokes running through his mind ( _“They hardly count as jokes,”_ he hears the others deadpan), when they reach the end of the field of grass. It drops off into a sheer cliff, and Warrod wonders why none of them smelled the tang of ocean air before now.

As they stand on the edge of the cliff, staring out over the water, the air shifts again. it blows directly from the ocean now, and blows their hair away from their faces.

“I love you,” Mavis says suddenly. They all turn to look at her, Yuriy comically trying to crane his head to look at her over his shoulder. “I love all of you. From the bottom of my heart. Forever.” The decree hangs between them for a moment, and then Precht scoffs.

“Obviously.” And the way he says it they all know what he means is; _“Obviously we love you too.”_

“You’re stuck with us now,” Warrod adds.

“Eh,” Yuriy says, shifting Mavis into a more comfortable position on his back. “You’re all decent at best.”

Mavis’s indignant screeches and Yuriy’s mellow laughter carry across the sea breeze as they stand at the edge of the world. For the first time in years, they’re all home.

* * *

Levy leans against Lucy’s back, breathing deeply as they sit on the grass in the makeshift medical clinic. To her right, she can hear Gajeel and Natsu bickering about something in muted voices, and almost wants to laugh. Of course it would take a battle that had nearly killed all of them to get them to be quiet for once. It apparently did nothing to stop their arguments, though.

She knows she should get up and help the others, but she’s only been sitting here five minutes. She looks at all the people scurrying about and closes her eyes. There’s enough help for now. _After all,_ she thinks wearily, _too many cooks spoil the stew._

A gentle breeze sweeps through the clinic. It’s light and warm, and it gently ruffles hair and clothing as it makes it way through. Levy feels her heart jump into her throat when she thinks she hears soft laughter on the wind, but it’s not malicious. Rather, it makes her feel reassured and safe, and she relaxes against Lucy again with a small, “Oh.”

“What is it?” Lucy asks, twisting to turn around and look at Levy. Whispers spread throughout the camp; _Did you hear that? Did you feel that? What was it?_

Levy groans and gestures for Lucy to turn back around and resume her position as Levy’s pillow. “It’s nothing,” Levy sighs, smiling up at the sky. She thinks about Warrod’s last words. _You’ll know._ “I just feel like everything’s going to be okay.”

Lucy purses her lips even though Levy can’t see. She, too, looks at the sky. “I feel like you’re right.”

And, for them, for the people they lost, the world is all right.

 

**Author's Note:**

> :)
> 
> The alternate title for this fic is "where you invest your love (you invest your life)"
> 
> I should stop listening to Mumford & Son's because all of their songs make we want to write angsty, feely fics


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